


Your Retribution

by Bosie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-04 04:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17297837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosie/pseuds/Bosie
Summary: There was little to be felt, and yet he could feel everything, and nothing, at once. If he tried, could he stop feeling, to render himself utterly unfeasible, silently killed by the very instincts he had attempted to suppress? The thought itself has always been present within his psyche, manifesting itself over time, but as of current it was at the forefront of his mind.“All those who fall under your sight are sentenced to eternal damnation, and I do intend to understand why.”Dark! Harry Time Travel AU





	1. Hogwarts Express

There was little to be felt, and yet he could feel everything, and nothing, at once. If he tried, could he stop feeling, to render himself utterly unfeasible, silently killed by the very instincts he had attempted to suppress? The thought itself has always been present within his psyche, manifesting itself over time, but as of current it was at the forefront of his mind.

It was through this that he realized he was breathing. Mayhap he had regained consciousness; Harry found that he could indeed experience, and in turn, feel - it granted him a touch of disappointment- that he was indeed alive. 

Thoughts. How he wished to be free from them forever. Evidently, such a wish was not being granted. 

Perhaps this is what death was? Void, with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company? He supposed this was more of a torturous afterlife than anything else. If so, he would give full consent, even if it were not needed. Sadomasochism had been something of a hobby to him now, one that was so fueled by passion that it had become second nature. He lived for suffering, and in turn, suffering lived for him. To both experience and inflict the very pain that embodied human nature was a poetry beyond words.

“So you’ve awakened, Harry.”

Oh.

If he could, he would have laughed, at the sheer hilarity of the situation. Two dead men, bonding over their deaths in the most pitiful of ways. He had reached innumerable lows during his lifetime, and yet he could not bear this purity of mediocrity.

“You’ll find your senses intact; it simply seems that you refuse to use them.”

In the past, such a remark would have annoyed him, but now he found that he felt nothing. For the first time, Harry willed himself to possess sight- in doing so, he found that he had eyes. And with those, he could see, see that he was unscathed, that he was indeed - in the very sense of the word - well.

It was dark, very dark. He could barely distinguish Dumbledore’s face in front of him, and yet, it was as if he had been granted with a sixth sense, for he knew exactly where he was.

“An odd choice for our reunion, I must admit.”

At this, the headmaster chuckled. “I take it that the Hogwarts Express isn’t ideal.”

It seemed the afterlife, as defined by death, took the form of his past memories. His initial thrill regarding eternal damnation had disappeared; instead it was now replaced by rapt curiosity, festering upon itself as the silence grew. Now, in the absence of dialogue, he directed his gaze toward what little he could make out of the carriage window, finding it to be just as lackluster as the remainder of the train. He knew not of where to go, nor which choices to make, and yet he had extensive faith in his own newly attained ideal: to experience completely, and entirely, the human psyche.

“Harry?”

The interjection brought his attention back to Dumbledore; he would be telling a lie should he be under the pretense of innocence. He felt nothing for the headmaster, and as such felt nothing for the substance of their conversation. Lack of engagement, however, was not an option.

“Forgive me, Professor,” he reconciled. “I was occupied with my thoughts just now.”

“What is it you were thinking?”

“Many things,” Harry said, vaguely.

His words, which seemed to open up all the sluiceways between the two, was exactly what fueled the other man’s loss of aspiration. Where would they meander from here? What was there to comprise? And what would happen when dialogue was again trialed, this time without the underlying nihilism?

“You are between life and death, Harry. It is quite a strange scenario, if I must say.”

“What is it that you mean?”

“You have not gone on, yet you no longer exist.”

Harry spoke this phrase within him as it it were a prophetic chant meant to mirror his contemporary state of life, or rather, death. By repeating those words that had been spoken, he wished to meet a metaphoric corridor to some nether veracity that had formerly evaded him, about him, about life and death, about others, and about him with others.

He supposed this voice of wisdom was reasonably his most winning trait: it had not been long since he had encountered such conceptions forthright, yet his ability to overcome them had improved unremarkably over a remarkable period of time. Simply, the man was a fool.

“It is strange how death works this way, is it not?”

“Indeed,” the older man replied. “Your changes influences its own.”

To this, Harry did not respond. He had suspected as much, that the afterlife would have been tailored to his own self, his own being. What he did not expect was its intense, enduring obsession, both with itself, and with the state of the human and otherworldly projection.

“You’ve changed very much - no, extremely so. The radicalization of your mindset seems to be the only reason for your presence here today.”

“What is to say this is not the case?”

“What is it that your mind considers its ideal?”

There was no hesitation at all as the words left Harry’s mouth; mayhap this was a testament to his own lack of diffindentness.

“The force that holds dominion over the world is not causality, professor, it is pain.”

Dumbledore must have read his intention and, with complete restraint, acknowledged that through the cold truth, a demonstration of one’s own radicalism was masking a hidden need to prove oneself - both as worthy and wanted.

“That I will have to disagree with,” Dumbledore said. “Such things should not be glorified.”

“You hold onto the illusion of love. It will not serve you, continuing to lie to you forever until it has reduced you into a shadow of your former self, and in the end, nothing at all. I wish to avoid your mistakes, headmaster: to make a decision that reflects the truth of the world.”

“Your choices are limited, unfortunately. You cannot go on.”

“Why not?”

“You have changed, Harry. You have become evil, deprived completely of love - an occurrence I would not have predicted.”

The man was an avid propagator of love, of the fantasies of good and evil. When would reality encounter him, to open his eyes to the truth that his beliefs were all total shams?

“Evil is a strong word; I have merely come to terms with the world around me.”

“Your ideals are incorrect,” Dumbledore told him, gently. “You have adopted a dangerous ideology.”

Harry felt nothing at these words. Rather, he felt a sense of peace, as if he had attained the status of an unknown deity.

“If I cannot go on, what are my choices?” he asked, without a hint of insincerity.

“I cannot ascertain,” Dumbledore supplied. “However, you do not control where you go.”  


How constrained the identities of fate were; to deny him his own choosing of destiny. They were, in irony, what fueled him, the underlying source of his passions. Any pain he experienced would be an euphoric pleasure in itself, fluctuating forever in an afterword that tasted too bittersweet.

“That I do not mind.”

There was a fleeting moment of tension between the two; an unspoken truce that encompassed all that there was to fathom in regards to his decision. You could almost watch each other attempting, with no success, to withdraw their ill choice of words. He did not miss the subtetly of operatic emotion, nor the formality of which they spoke to each other, but he would do well to recollect the hard learnt lessons of their past exchanges.

Permission, as transparent as it was, seemed to be granted.

For the first time since death, he willed himself to move, physically. He found himself to possess perfect motor control, a surprise that lent itself to the fragility of his past body. With little effort, he opened the door of the carriage and stepped outside. He could envision Dumbledore as he was, back in the carriage, staring straight ahead, pensive, as if to imitate the attitude of someone who cared very little for another’s departure. 

He cared very much. This he knew well.

“Goodbye, professor.”


	2. Absent Injury

All was dark. It could not be described as a distressing darkness, for that he had grown accustomed to long ago. Instead, it was one of satisfaction, one that sought to placate him as much as he pleased, speaking to him in the voices that appraised him, telling him of his own rebirth, and of his otherwise untimely demise.

People like him were cognizant of the passing of time, and yet he could not endure the temptation of prolonged darkness; it was too sweet, far too saccharine. Should he give in, he imagined the scene of emotional carnage, unwavering in its motive to completely, and utterly, devastate his mindsake.

Blood. That was the first thing he tasted. Then came the pain. If not for his muted tongue he would have cried out in delight, for this was - and there was no contest - heaven, in all its glory. 

As his vision cleared, he found himself to be in an empty classroom. Disappointment occluded him, but he should not be as so naive to truly believe he had been granted of his cravings. His psyche was foolproof; all good was interpreted as it were, and in turn all that was bad was perceived as an exultant pleasure in itself. In short, the game could not be lost, even if he were to resume playing in perpetual continuum. 

Is it better to act or die?

An ordinary man would have acknowledged that he was living on borrowed time; such a notice had never occurred to him, as his time had been extended, forever and ever, something that he knew he did not deserve - this only appeased him furthermore. Time itself was always borrowed, and yet as he smiled inwardly, he already knew he had broken this unspoken law, discarding it of its authenticity and leaving it hollow, never to be engaged again. Time was sentimental, and perhaps it is due to this that it caused him suffering. 

Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this afternoon, and this afternoon is eons away.

Harry knew already of his crusade, having been given neither guidance nor counsel. Some deity or being - he minded not of which term to use - had sent him back to Hogwarts, through the fabric of the space time, in order to alter the course of history or some other salient commodity. The rationality of this theory was developed still by the advent of student robes, as he did not hesitate to take this fact into consideration. Should he have been transported into another’s body, that would explain the excruciation that occupied him as of now.

He viewed life and death in negligence, akin to that of playing with chess pieces whilst blind. There was truly no other purpose that existed within him besides this nihilistic ideal, entrenched in cynicism and the attitude of someone that cared little for everything, degrading itself further with every action he performed. 

I can’t go on, I’ll go on. 

Slowly, he began to move what little he could. The previously attained mobility he had been granted seemed to have been cleared from him completely: he was injured, and terribly so. This he did not bother with; curiosity overshadowed the pain by far, and as he tried to speak, only to find his throat parched, the exhilaration within him only heightened.

If there was any truth in the world, it spoke only lies whenever he faced it. Never ending deceptions, long winding untruths, unraveling themselves continuously until he had reached an apex of trials and tribulations.

Tasting and smelling his own blood animated his usually dormant subconscious; how he wished to stay this way forever, to die once again, and exist furthermore in torturous suffering, filled completely by the desire for pain, and in turn receiving the fulfillment of such desires. Lack of commitment, however, was not a feasible option. The possibilities of the unknown were too promising to concede, and he had given up an opportunity too many in the past.

Harry closed his eyes, striving for the hundredth time to experience true enlightenment, as much of a poor imitation it had appeared to him in the past. He wished, with precise concentration, for it to come: it did not.

Even his own injuries astonished him, although it was a pleasant surprise, not one of horror; both his arms were fractured, his leg broken, and from what he could tell, heavy bruises covered his body, the cause of his inability to function. It was with extended hesitation that he performed wizardry; admittedly, he had never excelled at healing spells in the past, but he would have to draw on what little he did recall in order to recover his broken self. The potentiality of devastation only spurred him on further, as was to be expected of the persistent voices that hounded him. Non verbal magic was the first to come to mind, and it was this he selected, for he sighted no evidence of a wand.

Scourgify.

Standing up, Harry observed his surroundings in more detail. The pain had disappeared long ago, and he would be lying should he say he did not miss its company. Perfect mobility was his again, and he did not hesitate to make use of it; his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and he could make out faintly the door. The room itself was plain to an extreme, perhaps to reflect its disuse, with dust coating every surface possible - it reminded him, comically, as a metaphor for the quota of pain that others before him had undergone. 

It all seemed too uncomplicated, what with the placement and positioning of his location; it was as if he had been deposited here purposefully, and he garnered no surprise from this if he were, as in full honesty, his meager expectations fell wholly short of its reality.

Harry resisted the urge to simply apparate himself out of the classroom, choosing instead to take a chance and see where it led him. The reality of the unknown intrigued him, and in turn granted him an euphoric high that he wished for more than anything else.

As he opened the door, sighting the stairs, and continued upwards, his surroundings growing lighter in hue; it seemed he had previously been underground, and was just now ascending into the heart of the castle. Judging from this clue, it was plausible to assume that it was either anytime from early morning to late afternoon.

Memories of his past as a student in the school struck him momentarily, only to be condemned by their host as unnecessary. To dispel such thoughts would be to commit a crime far worse than death, and Harry desired death as if it were a long lost lover. What little pain had been experienced during his stay at Hogwarts had been fickle; none had compared at all to his confrontations with Voldemort.

Voldemort. The word was tainted, and yet, as he repeated it inwardly, he felt no fear at all for the man this name belonged to. Instead, as with pain, he found himself content with its existence. If it were not for the dark connotations that possessed the term, he would never have felt so pacified. It was with Voldemort that he had experienced his greatest pains, with Voldemort that he had learnt the meaning of suffering; how he lamented his absence now, in the abyss of his redemption.

The prophecy had held dominion over him for his entire life; with death, it had been undone. Now, having been granted another recourse, he had in turn been given an epiphanic mission, one that told not of any purpose nor guide. The trenchancy of this contrast allowed him to experience an elation beyond that of his beloved sadomasochism, chafing his sentiments as time progressed.

One would assume he had sworn loyalty to the Dark Lord - no, this could not be further from the truth. Mockery was held for all of humanity, disregarding all differentiating parties. Exploration of human depravity was what mattered most; interest would only be piqued should he navigate the terrain of those that were already fallen.

“Jones?”

Harry turned slightly, only to see the shadowed form of the man that had spoken with him henceforth. He would be telling a falsehood should he say that he had not been startled by the remark. It was a loud one, one that reverberated throughout the staircase as if to mimic the sound of a defeating echo.

“Up,” the figure motioned.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry acknowledged.

By logic, this was the younger Dumbledore. Thus he had travelled back in time, confirming his theory, and thereby deeming the validity of his crusade. Could this be Riddle’s time? Harry was almost certain that he had been sent on a vocation that echoed of thinly veiled duplicity. How ironic it was, to have been stripped of his own prognosis in order to fulfill another’s own; this was only extended further by the brotherhood of which both prophecies shared. Truthfully, he did not mind it, for it was through such juxtaposed contrivances that he felt at ease. 

As he approached the man, he was unsurprised to find him thoughtful, relatively expressionless as he surveyed the new arrival. What possibly macabre thoughts occupied that mind as of current? He understood the past Dumbledore in a way nobody did - he could quite faithfully see through him, and by extension, others - a skill that was yet to be procured. It was an enigmatic conception in itself, one that alternated forever with no tellings of slowing down.

“You’ve been missing for half a day,” Dumbledore intoned. 

There was no answer. He could not truthfully distinguish if it were an ill meaning gesture of repealed solidarity, or purely a remark of concern. This body that he inhabited - Jones - had definitely been tortured in some guise, left for dead in an abandoned classroom. The situation itself did not interest him, despite how morbid the milieu was; he knew not of the perpetrators, nor of why they had done to him what had been conducted - but what he did know was that his pulse quickened as the seconds dragged on - the circumstantial relations were what was subject to scrutiny. 

“May I ask where you have been?”

He decided to make up an excuse; it would be only fitting for him to employ a hint of levity to save his dignity. Should it fail he would perpetrate a final indignity, and with that indignity show to him that he had no reason for telling a lie, that the lack of ingenuousness was his. 

No - that would be unwise. This was no child’s play, and although it would be poetic if it were, he decided against anything outside the realm of composure. He would adopt the same persona as he had when addressing the previous man.

“That I do not know,” he replied. “I don’t seem to remember anything.”

Dumbledore studied him closely, and in turn Harry did not hesitate to meet his gaze with steel, eyes that told of nothing. He knew well that the professor could perform legilimency; he was equally confident in his own application of occlumency. 

How he pitied people who evaluated others so coldly, without a slathering of jest. Their exchanges hinted at a realm of human experience only a select nobility had access to. What thoughts occupied his psyche during these displays of dispassionate tellings? Did he suppress his own humanity, as his masked form could not hold up otherwise? Or was he merely this manner, an empty shell of a being’s soul?

Every student had encountered it, the ice of his demeanor, the evocation of his glacial words. The image amused him, almost as much as the thought of eternal damnation did, informing him of the illusory mind under the layers of punctuality, the silhouette of severed self control. The fact that his core was as warm as its surroundings did well to humor him.

Perhaps it had always been this way.

Any suspicion raised from his knowledge of this skill would not be detrimental in any sense, for he knew the man thoroughly, such that news of Jones would be limited to his own judgement - that is to say, he would not tell.

What suspicion could be raised was of his unreservedly healthy appearance; Dumbledore broke their previously unwavering bout of eye contact to wander over Harry’s form, as if to assess his current state of wellbeing. Finding nothing extraordinary, he directed his gaze back to the boy’s own.

“Come with me.”


	3. Consequential

The Hogwarts building was a winding maze of corridors and staircases. Despite Harry’s knowledge of the school grounds, he himself admittedly knew not of many of the passageways they meandered through. Dumbledore was his only guide, and it should be ironic that he depended on the man for something so seemingly trivial, yet in actuality so vital such that its relevancy pestered his subconscious to no end.

They encountered few students, but of what few he could see, they bore much similarity to those of Harry’s time: most wore complacent expressions, and the same familiar student robes that had become something of a keepsake to him since his departure from the school. Truthfully, as he scolded himself, he should not be so attached to something as inconsequential as Hogwarts, and yet he had no intention of clearing himself of this devotional folly; it granted him a high that echoed of his own terribly refined mindsake.

It was a humorous thing, how time seemed to pass - drearily, and intentionally leisurely - as they continued on their metaphoric conquest to locate Dumbledore’s chambers. He began to find himself wondering if they actually existed, for the gradual waning of his attention served his cynicism well. 

His thoughts wandered to the conversation that had developed between the two of them beforehand. They had spoken not of the circumstances that had led to their meeting, no - they had engaged instead of a subtly manifested battle of wits, with the key word being battle in that it was no battle at all but rather a coy game of exceptionally structured outbursts.

Mayhap none of them had wished, truly, to speak of the events before his death. He had only wished to test his desire, without acknowledging that wanting to do so was nothing more than a ruse to get what he wanted without admitting that he did indeed want it. Dumbledore’s rebuke told him that he desired not to play his game. That put Harry in his place, although it did not prevent him from forging his own fueled decisions.

The past was just that - in the past - and yet, as often as he reminded himself of this fact, the more he believed that he should utilize it as a means to further his ideology. He had yet to experience as much pain as he had in the present than in the past, although he supposed this would change, if he desired it. 

Through his own lack of mental wellbeing, he compulsively adopted the persona of one that constrained consciousness, in that their demeanor was entirely calculated, and controlled such that perfection of the human psyche did not look so unattainable - it just so happened that this shift occurred as soon as they came to a halt. Should he have been a second late, he would not have been able to exercise the timing of this composure.

There was a loud creaking of the door as Dumbledore pushed it open; the door itself seemed to have been unlocked. How this fared for security measures he did not know, but he did not take it upon himself to question this, either.   
This seemed not to be a professor’s office at all, but rather what looked to be the Room of Requirement. The nostalgia bit at him now, reminding him to the best of its ability of his past adventures in affiliation with the commodity at hand. In the past, he would have suppressed such feelings, but now, he only performed the opposite; experiencing it in its entirety, he allowed it to fill him, invigorating his psyche with its flavor.

For there is danger in emotion. There is the distraction of beauty, and the consequence of illusion. True sentiments are of purity, and yet they are deadly; it is through damnation that feelings can be fully cultured. If not for its delusory mask, feelings themselves could almost be described as sinful.

Sin. The term amuses him, and not for the reason one would assume - it occurs to him, daily, the metaphoric debt he has collected for himself through the accumulation of transgressions.

As if on command, the partially candlelit interior grew brighter as the two men walked through the entryway. It illuminated a large, exquisite office, one that was shrouded in perpetual enigma. For its shelves of spell books reached the heavens, and the room itself was decked out in novel gadgets and gizmos. This partially resembled Dumbledore’s office - at least from what he could recall - from his time; this was due in part to the blatant change of location.

“Please, take a seat.”

And so he did, moving towards the seat facing forward towards the desk as Dumbledore approached the seat behind it. The professor cleared his throat; perhaps to announce the ceremonious beginnings of his inquisition.

“Tea?”

He had never been quite partial to drinks, but accepted anyway. It was only the polite thing to do. For it was nobler to be deceived than to be mistrustful, and he doubted the potentiality of suspicious items within the liquid. 

“Thank you.”

As he sipped the tea, taking note of its golden brown hue, Dumbledore waved his wand, sealing the entryway with shadowed mist; a blatantly fanciful action that he could only hope to reflect.

“Christopher Jones: Do you remember this name?”

He did not expect the bluntness with which his questioning was performed, however. Though it was spoken in the soft, wise voice he had grown accustomed to throughout his years at Hogwarts, without context the words were just that - words, and candidly so.

“Admittedly not - but I do understand that it is my own.”

If not for the pith with which he spoke such eloquent words, his being would have been perceived as far less decent than he actually was. As he was no more decent than the common fool, and he acknowledged this sparingly.

“You understand it to be your own?”

Dumbledore repeated this rhetoric slowly, attempting to take in its full meaning, all the time sorting them out, playing for time by repeating the words like a line from a textbook. It had an unceremonious quality to it that reminded him of how devastated his desires were in comparison to the expansive abandonment within him.

Harry did not answer, for it was not needed; the organic mechanisms of the professor’s judgement would process this statement adroitly.

“How would you label your scenario?”

Harry looked at him. 

“As the victim of an attempted murder, Professor - I woke up soaked in my own blood.”

Taking care not to delve into too much detail, he said these words with a fair helping of conviction, but only that, a fair helping. 

“And yet you appear to be in full health.”

Was he so very wise? A Squib would be able to identify that he had healed himself; it amused him, how completely benign the past Dumbledore was - and it would be even more laughable if it was a facade cultured specifically for him.

“That is my own doing, fortunately.”

Dumbledore eyed him warily. If not for the kindness of his face, one would be quick to assume he was admitting a well-kept lie.

“I wish to help you, Jones - but I can only do what is within my power.”

Was this the breadth of his woeful motive? Was he truly this weak? Or were ‘woeful’ and ‘truly’ merely inaccurate descriptions of the half hearted truth within a fostered skein of longing? These wonders did little to fulfill his curiosity.

“May I ask what you mean?”

“I do not want to disturb the interweaving of Dark Magic - and that is what I see in front of me.”

Time seemed to stand still as countless thoughts manifested themselves within his psyche; for he knew not of whether his words were shams or half hearted truths - and he truly did not mind if it were either. What game was he playing? Whatever it was, his interest was garnered.

In his attempts to sound wise and grandiose, it was though he was referring to a realm of human experience that was unknown to those of his caliber. However, he had only seemed to enact his words like a sad, scared old peddler.

A slightly less able practitioner of Occlumency would have submitted henceforth to the gaze they now shared; determination was a highly prized factor of his own, and it was due to this that Harry did not crack under the amount of pressure currently being exerted onto him.

“You mean to say-“

“Yes. I know.”

There was a silence that fell - notably awkward - that he did not wish to break.

“As for the perpetrators - I will pass the word onto Professor Dippet - but I cannot say if they will be brought to justice.”

His previously piqued interest reignited itself at the mention of ‘perpetrators’, as he desired very much to identify those that had performed such a horribly beautiful act. Looking forward, their exchanges would be truly fascinating - that was a guarantee.

At this point, the professor emitted a sound. It was something between a sigh and a clearing of the throat.

“You’ve lost your memory, Jones; I’ll allow your past to come back to you gradually. It’s currently class time, but for now, I advise you return to your bedchambers.”

“However, sir-“

“I’ll walk you.”

Harry nodded slowly, head bowed, his attention now focused with intensity on the desk in front of him.

“I understand.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought of this chapter! All feedback is welcome :)  
> P.S This chapter, as with all other chapters, is subject to updates and changes! I felt some improvements could be made so I’m taking action to ensure that my works are bettered.  
> P.S.S This work is still in progress, so it’s not completed! There will be many more chapters to come :)


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